


the world entire

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [191]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Arthur, Canon Era, Episode Related, Episode: s01e13 Le Morte D'Arthur, Hurt Merlin (Merlin), M/M, Magic Revealed, Matter of Life and Death, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Mild Hurt/Comfort, Protective Arthur, References to Illness, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 05:43:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20755283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: The world is very still, and it occurs to Arthur suddenly how quiet it is. The bells don’t toll for dead manservants, only for princes and kings, but that just makes the clamour of his heart seem louder.“Very well,” he says, pushing himself to his feet. “Then I’m going to have to save him.”Episode 1x13 AU. Nimueh accepts Merlin’s offer to exchange his life for Arthur’s. Arthur does not.





	the world entire

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Merlin Canon Fest 2019.
> 
> This fic has been a ride from start to finish—I started out intending to write something completely different, only to be forcibly hijacked by an old plot bunny when I was rewatching the episode part way through. What can I say? It was a very intimidating bunny XD Many thanks to the mods for putting together this lovely fest once again ❤︎
> 
> "Whoever saves one life, saves the world entire." –– Jerusalem Talmud, Sanhedrin 4:1 (22a).
> 
> Please do not repost elsewhere or list my fic on Goodreads (or any other similar spaces).

In sleep, Arthur has strange dreams.

He dreams of Merlin by the shore of a lake. His manservant’s face is pale and wan, his eyes red-rimmed and smudged with exhaustion. He is stepping onto a boat which has neither sail nor oars, yet somehow once he is seated it begins to move, gliding noiselessly across the water. 

Arthur follows it. Merlin disembarks at the foot of a ruined castle, climbing up a single step into the courtyard beyond. A ring of standing stones awaits him, wreathed in mist, and at its centre is an unused altar, bleached to the colour of old bone.

“Hello?” Merlin calls into the silence.

“Hello, Merlin.” 

A woman is standing in front of him. She has long dark hair and a tattered pink dress, and although the island is a cold and lonely place, her shoulders are bare. 

“You can’t be who the dragon meant,” Merlin says, which makes no sense. “You tried to kill me.” 

“That was before I understood your importance,” the woman replies in a conciliatory tone. “You and Arthur were never destined to die by my hand. Instead, I am to be your salvation.” 

“Then you know what I have come to ask?”

“I do.” There is something predatory about her mouth: the bladed hint of a smile barely covering her teeth. Arthur wants to warn Merlin to be careful, but as is the way in dreams he can neither act nor speak. “To save a life, there must be a death. The balance of the world must be restored.” 

“I know that a price will be asked,” Merlin says, squaring his shoulders. “I willingly give my life for Arthur’s.”

“Then the deal is struck,” says the woman, her eyes gleaming. “I hope it pleases you.”

The storm obscures what comes next. Arthur follows Merlin back across the lake, unnoticed, and he knows it is a dream, now, because it has to be—he can hear his father’s voice speaking to him from a long way off, the gentle touch of a paternal hand against his forehead. He drifts again, feverish, and dreams of Merlin riding hard across rough country, determination in his face; of Merlin pouring fresh rainwater into his mouth and murmuring under his breath. Cool lips press against Arthur’s temple, so real and vivid that Arthur stirs, frowning in his sleep.

“Rest, Arthur,” says a familiar voice. 

After that, there are no more dreams. 

  
  


♆

  
  


The trouble with Merlin, Arthur decides, is that he’s so contrary. One moment you can’t get rid of him, the next he is nowhere to be found.

“I’m afraid I don’t know, sire,” says the man who’d brought his breakfast tray—Gareth? Gaheris? He’s trying to look as though he’s not put out by the question, but really: Arthur has a manservant already, and he’s not in the market for another one. He doesn’t much care if Geraint’s ego is bruised. “I was told that he was indisposed, but that was all.” 

Indisposed could mean any number of things, not all of them bad. Perhaps Merlin had spent the night in the tavern, drinking to celebrate Arthur’s miraculous recovery. Perhaps he was being overly cautious about a silly, trifling cold.

It’s not as if this is the first time Merlin has played hooky for unknown reasons, but after some of the things he’d said the night before, Arthur would feel better if Merlin were to stay in sight for the foreseeable future. Too many strange things have been happening lately, beginning with the appearance of the Questing Beast and ending with his manservant’s uncharacteristic sentimentality, and Arthur is not so blind as to think that they are unconnected. 

Besides. Arthur needs food and clothing, and he relies on Merlin to fetch them for him, which means that Merlin has no right to go wandering off without asking him first. 

“My tunic, please,” he says, pushing his untouched breakfast dishes aside and climbing out of bed. Gerald retrieves the tray with a noise of distress and sets it carefully on a nearby table before doing as he’s told, glancing over at the food from time to time as though it physically pains him to see it going ignored. 

Merlin would have understood that Arthur has more important things on his mind than eating just now—but then, if Merlin were here, Arthur would have no need to forego his breakfast. Merlin would also have taken his time helping the prince out of his sleeping things, oblivious to the fact that every touch, every fond adjustment of Arthur’s collar or speck of lint plucked from his garments is strictly speaking a violation of royal protocol. 

Galen is a stickler for protocol. He dresses Arthur with the same exactitude that he had served his breakfast, taking care not to behave too familiarly (in the way that Merlin had been familiar, calling the prince all kinds of names and meaning none of them) and according the prince every due respect. Arthur holds himself still for as long as it takes to be presentable but no more, seized with a restless memory of Merlin’s mouth the way it had been in his dream, pinched and afraid. Of Merlin’s voice, saying, _ I willingly give my life for Arthur’s_. 

It’s a ridiculous thought, of course, because Merlin has been safe in his bed this whole night past, not riding out to an impossible island to make deals with madwomen, and Arthur is no more a Seer than his father is a chimney sweep—but still the unease lingers, insinuating itself in between his ribs like a prowling animal. He sends George scuttling with a few short words and leaves the room, heading straight for the infirmary. He is already thinking of the chores he will inflict the following morning, just as soon as Merlin proves all his imaginings untrue. 

  


♆

  


His imaginings are not true, but the truth is worse. There is a body in Merlin’s bed, but it is not Merlin; it can’t be Merlin, because only a few scant hours before, Merlin had been standing in front of Arthur without a mark on him, telling him not to be a prat. 

“What did he do,” Arthur says blankly, staring at the corpse. “What stupid, abysmally _ foolish _thing—”

“He saved your life,” Gaius says, his voice sharp, “by offering up his own. I will thank you not to belittle that sacrifice.” 

It all makes sense, now. Arthur’s illness. His miraculous recovery. Merlin’s parting words: _ I’m happy to be your servant, Arthur. Until the day I die. _

Arthur reaches for anger and finds it. “This is sorcery,” he spits, whirling around. “How _ dare _you! My father will have you hanged.”

“This enchantment was not my doing,” Gaius says heavily. He had followed Arthur when he’d stormed into Merlin’s room, but hadn’t tried to stop him, perhaps because there was no point. Now he beckons him back out into the infirmary and gestures for him to sit, pressing down on Arthur’s shoulder when he hesitates too long. “And even if it were, your father knows as well as I that killing me will not reverse its work. Such a bargain once struck cannot be broken; believe me, I have tried.”

He looks at Arthur as he says this, as though expecting some response. Does he think that Arthur will be offended by the admission, knowing that his death would have been the direct result? Perhaps he ought to be, on some level, but he finds he can muster no resentment. If he had the power, then he, too, would choose Merlin, against all reason and against all odds. 

He picks up a pot and hurls it across the room. It shatters.

“Tell me what happened,” he says, so Gaius does, sparing no detail. 

Leaving aside the impossibility of the situation, what he says matches Arthur’s dream in every particular. He had guessed at some of Merlin’s secrets, his magic among them, but he had not suspected just how much his manservant had been keeping from him until it was all laid out before him, an intricate map of the choices that had led them to this moment. It seems grossly unfair that Merlin should be allowed to leave like this, quietly and almost unnoticed, when his entrance into Arthur’s life had been so brash and full of colour. It seems grossly unfair that Merlin should be allowed to leave at all.

“So she killed him,” Arthur says, fixing on the one thing he could possibly do something about. “This woman, the one on the Isle—”

“Yes and no,” Gaius says, shaking his head. “He made a deal, and she upheld her end of the bargain. It will be the illness that ultimately kills him, so in a sense he will have died a natural death.” 

“But then—he’s not dead,” Arthur says. He passes a hand over his face, thinking of the pale figure lying prone and unmoving on the bed, and realises that he’s trembling. “He’s not dead?”

Gaius only looks at him, weary pity in his eyes. “Not yet, sire.”

The world is very still, and it occurs to Arthur suddenly just how quiet it is. The bells don’t toll for dead manservants, only for princes and kings, but that just makes the clamour of his heart seem louder. 

“Very well,” he says, pushing himself to his feet. “Then I’m going to have to save him.”

  


♆

  
  


Gaius does his best to talk him out of it.

“Sire, you’re not well,” he says, following Arthur as he stalks back to his chambers and begins to get his things together. He bypasses the heavier plate metal in favour of his lightest suit of mail; it will be hell on his wounded shoulder, but he’d rather not risk the mountain pass unarmored. “It’s not safe. The journey to the Isle of the Blessed is an arduous one—”

“I’m well enough to ride,” Arthur says, ignoring a twinge of pain as he says it. “Which is all I need. If Merlin could make the trip, alone and unaccompanied, then I certainly shan’t have any trouble.”

“Your father would forbid it. This is sorcery of the darkest kind—”

“Then it’s a good thing my father will never hear of it.” He stops in his packing to fix Gaius with a hard stare, the sort that makes everyone but Merlin wither beneath his gaze. Gaius raises an eyebrow, unmoved, so Arthur adds, “It’s no use, Gaius. My mind is made up.” 

The physician says nothing more, trailing in Arthur’s wake as he travels to wardrobe, to kitchens, to armoury, his hands clasped behind his back like a disapproving ghost. When they return to the infirmary, Gaius waits outside while Arthur pauses to take his leave of Merlin—a foolish gesture, perhaps, since Merlin is still as remote and waxen as ever, but one he can’t bring himself to go without. 

Merlin is sprawled across his bed as though in sleep, his breathing shallow, one hand curled against his pillow like a half-opened flower beside what looks to be a dismembered rabbit’s foot. For a moment, Arthur imagines that he might stir—that a shake of his shoulder or raised voice might be enough to wake him. But Merlin doesn’t move, and when Arthur approaches the bed he can see that there are crusted sores at the sides of Merlin’s mouth, his lips cracked and dry.

“Don’t think I’m going to let you get away with this,” Arthur says, sitting down at the end of the pallet. “Skulking around behind my back, trying to sacrifice yourself without permission. You’ve been keeping too many secrets for far too long, Merlin, and when I get back—” But there he stops. If all goes well, he’s not sure he will be coming back. “I won’t have it. Do you understand?” 

He lingers for a few moments more, brushing back tousled strands from Merlin’s sweaty forehead. The last thing he wants to do is leave, knowing that to do so will be to abandon Merlin to an uncertain fate, but not to go would be to accept Merlin’s death as inevitable.

“I’m going to fix this,” he vows to the silent room. “All right? Don’t you dare die before I fix this.”

Merlin, of course, does not reply.

  


♆

  


Gaius is waiting for him in front of the infirmary door, his arms folded, a dire expression on his face. “Sire, I must beg you to reconsider—”

“Enough!” Arthur snaps, stopping in his tracks and clenching his fists. “_I will not lose him_.” 

They stare at each other over a pile of old books. Arthur wonders if Gaius can see it, the raw, animal thing that has been pacing inside of him since he woke and realised Merlin was gone. It was there the first time Merlin drank poison for him, wounded and raging, and it has only been growing in strength ever since, lashing its tail against his heart whenever Merlin is in danger. 

“He is my manservant, Gaius,” Arthur says at length, deliberately refusing to abandon the present tense. “And my friend, whatever my father might wish to the contrary. I can’t just let him go without a fight.”

Gaius holds his gaze for a beat and then sighs, his shoulders slumping. “I know I can’t stop you,” he says. “I’m not even sure that I want to. But, Arthur…” He hesitates. “Be careful. The forces of the Old Religion are tricky, and they will do their best to trap you. Be wary of giving away too much.” 

Arthur has already lost the one thing he cannot do without, but he flashes the old man a dangerous smile as he gathers up his things. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” 

  
  


♆

  
  


Later, Arthur will wonder how it is he came to have seen the route to the Isle of the Blessed in his dreams, but for now he is merely grateful for the advantage; it saves time. In a strange way, following in Merlin’s footsteps makes him feel as if he were drawing closer to his manservant instead of further away, and he takes this as a sign that he is going in the right direction. 

It also gives him time to think. He had accepted Gaius’ explanation as a matter of course, because the old man had no reason to lie to him—not anymore. But he still has so many questions, crowding together inside his head like the leaves overhead, obscuring all rational thought. There are only so many answers that can be cobbled together from dreams and half truths. 

Why had Merlin come to Camelot? Surely he must have known it would be dangerous, given what he was; and yet he had stayed anyway, long past the time when any sane person would have fled. Was it only destiny that kept him there? Or was it something else? 

He ducks his head under a low-hanging branch and digs his heels into his horse’s sides, spurring it on to greater speeds. Perhaps ironically, the spectre of Merlin’s impending death has brought home to him the true shape of the great, stomach-churning beast in his chest, the feeling that had sunk its claws into him the first time Merlin had saved his life. He had always claimed Merlin in some way or another, calling him some variation of _ my _ manservant, _ my _ friend, _ my _idiot, but what he really meant was simpler and more complicated all at once.

What he really meant was, _ mine_. Nothing more and nothing less.

  


♆

  


The boat is waiting for him when he reaches the lake, empty and innocuous, and he regards it for a long moment before he steps inside.

“All right,” he says, seating himself gingerly. “Take me to the castle.” 

It glides into action, the motion so swift and calm it is as though he were travelling over ice or glass, and not touching the water at all. On the other side, a familiar figure is waiting for him by the standing stones.

“_You_,” Arthur snarls, reaching for his sword.

“Me.” The woman from his dream plucks at the skirt of her dress and offers him a curtsey, her smile a red-lipped slash in her white face. He recognises her now as the same girl who had tried to keep him from the Mortaeus flower. She had come very close to killing Merlin then, too. “We meet again, Arthur Pendragon. I suppose I need not ask what brings you here.” 

“What did you do to him?”

“Nothing he did not ask for.” Her wide eyes are coquettish, but the curve of her mouth reveals her amusement. “He came to barter for your life, and offered his own in exchange. The bargain was fair.” 

“He’s not dead.” 

“No,” she agrees. “Not yet. For a creature such as Emrys, compromises must be made.” 

“I don’t know what that means,” Arthur says. “And I don’t care. He is my manservant, and I want him back.” 

The woman—call her what she is, the _ sorceress_—lets out a tinkling little laugh. “And what would you offer us in his place?”

“Myself. Anything.” Arthur’s breath catches as he realises just how true that is. “He came to bargain for my life, so if that is what it takes to spare him, so be it.” 

“You risk an awful lot for a mere peasant,” the sorceress says, but while her tone is mocking, her eyes are more thoughtful. “And not for the first time, either. Tell me, Arthur Pendragon, what is Merlin to you?”

Arthur sets his jaw. Total honesty is impossible: those are words that Merlin must be the first to hear from Arthur’s lips, if they are ever to be spoken at all. But instinct tells him that some portion of the truth is necessary if he hopes to succeed.

“He is my servant,” he says at last, deciding to stick with the unvarnished facts. “Whatever debt he owes you, I am the cause and therefore I am responsible for it. His life is not yours to take, nor his to dispose of; not for so long as he has bound it to my service.”

He is expecting her to laugh at him again, but instead she nods her head and steps away, looking satisfied.

“There is power in such things,” she says. “Though I did not expect Uther’s son to know of it. Perhaps you are not so ignorant after all.”

She circles him, and Arthur watches her with one hand on the hilt of his sword, fighting back the instincts screaming at him to attack. When she stands in front of him once more, she says matter-of-factly:

“A soul once bargained for cannot be taken. Such is not within my power. But I can offer you an alternative, if you are amenable.” 

He can hear Gaius’ voice in his ear, like a familiar touch at his shoulder. _ Careful, Arthur. _

“What would that entail?” he asks warily. 

“Simply this. As your death is already spoken for, I ask that you pledge your life to us. When you are king, you will lift the ban on magic. My people will go free.” 

“And?” 

She smiles. “And after your death, should Albion have need of you, we will call upon you to defend our people. Your sleep will not be an easy one, but it will not be permanent. There are some men who would give a great deal for such a chance as that.” 

So far, this does not sound like the kind of fool’s bargain Gaius had warned him about, which only makes Arthur even more suspicious. There has to be some kind of catch. 

“What about Merlin?”

“He will be as he was.” The woman’s smile is serene, but her eyes are cunning. She looks like a fox circling a chicken coop, just waiting to take advantage of a gap in the fence. “But he is a creature of magic, Arthur. Your hold over him is not unlimited.” 

The words strike with painful clarity, as no doubt she intends them to. If he agrees to such an arrangement, Arthur will be betraying all his father has ever worked for, without any guarantee that he can control what will happen next. He can save Merlin, but only by risking far, far more. 

_ Whatever I have to do, I will do it_, Merlin had said in Arthur’s dream. Arthur can hardly do otherwise.

“Very well,” he agrees. “So be it.” 

  
  


♆

  
  


It is the first time that Arthur has knowingly submitted to an enchantment, and it feels strange. The magic is cool and impersonal, like bathing naked in a brisk mountain stream, but for some reason Arthur had been expecting it to feel different—less clinical. He closes his eyes and forces himself to relax, focusing his thoughts on Merlin waiting for him back at the castle rather than what his father would say if he knew what his son was doing. It’s easier than it probably should be, until his mind drifts to the image of Merlin standing in much the same spot, voluntarily offering up his life for Arthur’s. If it hadn’t been for that dream, would he even have had the courage to try?

When the rain stops, his wound has vanished. In its place, there is a new scar, perfectly circular, with three curling shapes inscribed in its centre. A triskelion. 

“You bear the mark of the Old Religion,” the woman says as she hands him a brimming cup, and Arthur knows her name, suddenly: she is Nimueh, last of the High Priestesses. “Do not fail your friend, Arthur Pendragon—you are all that can save him now.” 

  
  


♆

  
  


Returning, Arthur is conscious of his exhaustion. Every bone in his body aches, every muscle stiff and complaining as he climbs back into the saddle. He clutches the cup in one hand, careful not to spill a single drop, and urges his horse forward with his knees, taking up the reins loosely in his free hand and allowing the animal its head. 

By the time he arrives at the citadel, the sky is beginning to darken, and he slips through the gates amidst the last of its inhabitants, keeping his hood pulled up to disguise his face. He had asked Gaius to make some excuse to his father—that he was sleeping, still, and had requested to be left alone to rest—but he knows that Uther will not be held at bay for long. It is imperative that no one learn he had left the city.

Gaius is waiting in the infirmary, his physician’s robes trailing as he paces the floor. In the short time that Arthur has been gone, he seems to have aged decades, but his gaunt face brightens when he catches sight of the prince.

“Arthur, my boy,” he says, hurrying over to him. “Was your trip successful?” 

“See for yourself,” Arthur says, handing over the cup. Gaius takes it reverently, cradling it with both hands.

“She _ gave you _the Cup of Life?”

“Is that bad?” 

“That’s…” Gaius shakes his head. “Unprecedented. How did you—no, you can tell me later. We don’t have much time.”

Merlin is lying as Arthur had left him, a sallow paleness to his cheeks, lines of pain crimping the corners of his mouth. Gaius gestures for Arthur to help him, and Arthur slides an arm beneath Merlin’s shoulders, levering him upright so that Gaius can pour the water between his lips. His head lolls sideways, and Arthur strokes his thumb along line of Merlin's jaw, watching as the pink flush returns slowly to his cheeks. 

“What were the terms?”

Gaius’ voice is quiet, and when Arthur looks up he finds the old man watching him, a knowing sadness behind his eyes. 

“Does it matter? It worked, didn’t it?”

“Arthur,” Gaius says warningly. “_What did you agree to? _”

Arthur glances away. The Cup of Life seems to glow in the candlelight as he looks at it, the last few droplets of water clinging to the inside of its rim. “A favour of some sort in the distant future,” he says at last. He turns back to meet Gaius’ gaze. “And my promise to end the ban on magic for good.” 

Gaius inhales sharply. “But—your father—”

“Will be dead by then,” Arthur says firmly, and Merlin lets out a small sound as Arthur’s hand tightens convulsively on his shoulder. “The law means little to a dead man.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Gaius inclines his head. His voice is troubled, but the look on his face says he knows exactly what Arthur means. 

  
  


♆

  
  


Arthur does not dream that night—at least, not of anything important. He wakes with the lingering impression of safety and repose, a sense of contentment that lasts until Merlin himself stumbles in, carrying a loaded tray with both hands and nudging the door open with his hip. 

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” Arthur asks, sitting up. “You’ve been ill.” 

Merlin hesitates a moment, but at a meaningful stare from Arthur he merely shrugs and continues inside. “I’ve made a miraculous recovery, obviously,” he says, kicking the door shut behind him. Arthur winces as it settles loudly into its frame. “Don’t worry. I’m not contagious.” 

That’s the last thing Arthur is concerned about, but he isn’t quite sure how to say so. Merlin appears much the same as ever as he bustles over to the prince’s table, but there is something in the set of his shoulders that Arthur doesn’t like, a distraction to his movements that is wholly new. He looks as though he were braced to flee at any moment. 

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and watches Merlin stiffen. “I won’t tell my father.” 

“I’m grateful, sire.” Merlin doesn’t look up. “Gaius said you wouldn’t.”

“_Mer_lin,” Arthur repeats, and this time Merlin stops what he’s doing, head bowed over the breakfast dishes as Arthur approaches him on bare feet. Arthur hovers for a moment, torn between wanting and not wanting to touch, until Merlin takes the choice out of his hands by turning around.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” he blurts, looking everywhere but into Arthur’s face. “For—for lying to you, I mean, I—”

“For saving me?” Arthur interrupts, and Merlin’s head jerks up. His eyes search Arthur’s, but whatever he sees there seems to settle him because he shakes his head.

“Never,” he says, and Arthur nods. 

“Then consider us even.” 

A tremulous smile dimples Merlin’s cheek, but then his expression goes blank again as his eyes catch on Arthur’s shoulder.

“Arthur?” he asks, stepping forward with wide eyes. “What is that?”

Arthur looks down; the collar of his shirt has slipped, revealing the Druid mark burned into his skin. He adjusts it quickly, but too late—Merlin is standing in front of him, something raw and hopeful lighting his face as he stares at the mark. 

“Gaius said you made her a promise,” he says. “He didn’t say—”

“He doesn’t know,” Arthur interrupts. “No one does, except for you. My father can’t ever hear about it.” 

“Of course.” Merlin reaches out to touch the scar, only to yank his hand back when Arthur lets out a hiss. “I’m sorry. Does it hurt?”

“No.” But there had been a spark, like a flint catching on rough stone, a heat in his gut that was unexpected. “It’s fine.” He takes a calming breath. “You can touch it.” 

Still eyeing him warily, Merlin reaches out again, his hands brushing against Arthur’s skin as he lifts the shirt off over the prince’s head. He makes a considering noise in the back of his throat as he inspects the mark, and then without warning he presses one finger to the centre of the triskelion, and Arthur feels it again—a peculiar, wrenching sensation in the vicinity of his navel. 

“Oh,” Merlin says softly. He’s standing very close, but instead of looking at the scar he’s looking into Arthur’s face, reading God knows what in his startled gaze. “_Oh_...”

It’s like there’s a fine thread stretching through the air between them, an invisible manifestation of Arthur’s promise. A creature of magic, Nimueh had called Merlin, and Arthur had bound himself to that magic via the Old Religion, which meant—

“I can feel it,” Merlin whispers, sounding fascinated. “It's a geas, I think. Linking us together.” He searches Arthur’s gaze. “You did this for me?” 

Arthur looks away, uncertain how to answer. He hadn’t thought of this part while he was out there, bargaining with priestesses for Merlin’s life, and so it hadn’t occurred to him how obvious it would be, how much of himself he had laid bare with one simple act.

“Arthur.” 

Merlin touches his chin, and Arthur turns his head, not realising that he is quite so close until Merlin’s lips meet his. It’s not so much a kiss as a question, awkward and unsure, but Arthur answers it without hesitation, kissing Merlin back and catching at his waist to draw him closer.

_ Yes_, says the thing in Arthur’s chest. _ This. Mine. More_. 

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers, his hands seeking out the marks on Arthur’s skin with an urgency that echoes his questing mouth. “Arthur. _ Arthur_.”

Arthur answers him this time by tumbling them both down onto the bed. 

  
  


♆

  
  


“Thank you,” Merlin says later, “for—what you did. Gaius said it was quite impressive, actually, for someone who knows nothing about magic.” 

“Such high praise,” Arthur says drily, and Merlin snorts, although he quickly sobers.

“You shouldn’t have risked your life like that, though. Not for me.”

“You swore an oath,” Arthur murmurs into his neck. He noses at the little tufts of hair at Merlin’s nape, then licks a stripe through the cooling sweat of his skin, tasting salt, “to serve me, Merlin, until the day you die. You do not get to disregard that oath whenever it is convenient for you.”

“I think you’ll find,” says Merlin, squirming, “that, if I _ had _ died, I would in fact have fulfilled my duties, sire.”

“No,” Arthur disagrees. He holds Merlin in place with a hand across his chest, ignoring his feeble attempts to wriggle free, and bites at his shoulder. “Being my servant comes with certain responsibilities, and chief among them is the obligation to remain alive and in one piece. I won’t have you going around bargaining your life away to any random sorcerer you might happen to meet. Especially not ones who swan around in ruined castles in their nightclothes, claiming to have power over life and death.” 

Merlin laughs into Arthur’s pillow. “Not a fan of Nimueh, I take it?”

“I’ve met her before,” Arthur admits. “Once. She tried to stop me from saving you then, too.” He pauses, then adds deliberately, “I don’t think I like her much.” 

“I’m sure the feeling is mutual,” Merlin says, and this time Arthur is forced to pinch him for his cheek. “Ow! What was that for?” 

“Your mouth,” Arthur explains, then leans over to delineate the offending territory in great detail, until Merlin’s lips are spit-slick and swollen, and Arthur considers that he has been thoroughly punished for his insolence. 

“We should probably move,” Merlin says eventually. “Before we find ourselves glued together permanently.” 

“Would that be so bad?” Arthur asks. “It would certainly save me a lot of trouble if I didn’t have to keep chasing you down.”

“Mm, but your father might object.” Merlin shifts his weight, giving a little sigh as Arthur slips free, and despite the general lassitude that has overtaken him, Arthur feels his cock twitch with sudden eagerness to go again. “I’d prefer to stay out of his sight as much as I can, all things considered.” 

The idea of losing Merlin to the pyre after everything they’ve been through is unthinkable, and Arthur reaches out to catch his wrist, stopping him before he can roll off the bed.

“Stay with me today,” he says. Asks. Does not—quite—beg. “There’s no way I can go to training this morning without rousing suspicion, and after recent events, I think I’m owed a couple of days of bed rest, don’t you?” 

Merlin lets out an amused huff, the way he does when he thinks Arthur is being completely unreasonable, but he doesn’t try to pull away. “Somehow, I don’t think _ rest _is involved in what you’re planning.” 

“Perhaps not.” Arthur grins. “But what I have in mind will be a lot more fun.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” Merlin indulges him with a lazy kiss, hot and deliberately filthy, but when Arthur tries to draw him back down into his lap he resists for a moment, pulling back and searching the prince’s face. “Are you sure about this?” he asks. “I mean—what are we doing here, really?” 

“I thought I explained it to you before,” Arthur says, sliding his hands down Merlin’s arms and tangling their fingers together. “You’re mine.”

“Mmm, so?” 

“So I pledged my life for you,” Arthur says, and this time when he tugs Merlin comes willingly, folding sweetly into the warmth of his embrace. “Let me show you exactly what that means.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments :)


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